Crazy Blood (32 page)

Adam cast upstream and mended early, letting his fly ride the current down. At this distance, it was a white speck. It drifted twenty feet without incident. Adam cast again. “Wylie, you know that April Holly is America's biggest winter sports star, biggest money earner, a true showcase athlete, as the Austrians like to say. Salonne shampoo pays her three million a year for the ads and the helmet space. Her equipment makers come in at about that, too. Her apparel makers pay her roughly another two million just to wear the stuff. They pay and pray she won't start her own line—though April has told them she might want to do just that. Her appearance fees are in the high five figures for no more than two hours of her time. Those amounts will double or even triple if she stays healthy and wins in Korea. Ah, a fish!”

Wylie watched as Adam played the fish, got it onto the reel, and brought it in. Wylie netted it and worked the hook loose and held out the net for the old man to see.

“I love the dark browns,” he said.

“That's a beauty, Adam.” Wylie set the net deep in the water and the fish eased, then flashed away. Adam gave him his spot and Wylie fished the same run, but closer to the bank. The larger fish were assumed to lie along the cut, deeper banks, and in Wylie's experience, this was occasionally true. Adam's voice came from behind and beside him.

“Of course, Helene Holly has bent their ears,” said Adam. “She told them that April is emotionally far younger than her twenty-one years. This, due to her meteoric rise as an athlete and somewhat retarded social development. Helene says April is extremely vulnerable, if not gullible. Helene says that April is given to pronounced highs and lows. She says that as competitions near, April becomes extremely focused on the event. She eats the exact same foods at the exact same time, wears certain ‘lucky' clothes and uses certain ‘lucky' gear. She sleeps up to ten hours a day, including an afternoon nap. She listens to the same songs and watches the same movies. April has a ritual that she does in her bathroom the evening before a contest, in which she arranges every grooming product on her counter in pairs, in a long procession, so that the front labels of each pair face each other, while their backs are turned to the backs of the coupled products on either side. Or something like that. Helene believes that this obsessive single-mindedness is what sets April apart. Helene says that when April loses focus, she is injury-prone. Helene's afraid—in a nutshell—that you're going to fuck everything up and April's going to lose the Mammoth Cup slopestyle to start her season. Which would be a disaster for her confidence. Or worse. April's never had a major injury. She's had minor ones, when she's lost focus. Helene predicts that the longer she's involved with you, the better are her chances for catastrophe.”

“I get all that. And I'll go anytime, Adam. Far away as April wants. I've told her that more than once.”

“The Olympic and snowboard mafias, and Helene, want you to make the move now. To get out of her life and let her win.”

“She's happy to be free of her mother and the rest of the team. She's laughing off the pressure. I'm not wrong about this, Grandpa. I know her.”

Wylie saw his fly vanish and felt the jerk on his line simultaneously. It was a small fish, and Wylie let it run until tired, then skittered it across the surface, knelt, and released it. He dried the fly and smudged some floatant onto the feathers, then cast it to the far bank. He gave it a quick mend and let it ride.

“Then the meeting got interesting,” said Adam. Wylie looked over his shoulder at his grandfather. “These are not subtle people. So hear me out. They've got a reward/punishment offer for you. Ready? Their current thinking is that U.S. ski cross is a losing proposition for the Seoul Olympics. John Teller had that fabulous run through Sochi, but he was our only one. Looking ahead, they see you and Sky and Tyler Wallasch and a couple of guys out of Aspen, and that Bridger kid out of Colorado. They're impressed, but not impressed enough. So on a go-forward, the USSA and Olympic plan is to cut ski-cross support to a trickle.”

“Ski cross is the best winter Olympic event there is!”

“The masses want boarding, not skiing. You know that.”

“But ski cross is faster and crazier. It's a downhill blitz and a giant slalom and a NASCAR wreck waiting to happen—all rolled into one. Shit, Adam. Don't get me started.”

“There's no accounting for what people want, Wylie. Or what they don't. But, of course, there's the reward side of the equation.”

Wylie glanced back again. He couldn't keep the hostility out of his heart or his voice.
“Bring it.”

“If you break off with April, the USOC will put more resources behind ski cross. And the USSA will do likewise. They say they are offering you a chance to do something for yourself, and your sport. Not to mention theirs.”

“Do you really believe they'd do much?”

Wylie glanced back and Adam shrugged. “I can't vouch for what they'd do. They won't make any commitment that can't be denied, or at least modified. It's all CYA. This is how our sport is run, unfortunately. By organizations with their noses to the wind. But there are many winds. They change and die and start up again.”

Wylie lifted the fly and false cast to dry it. He used a reach cast to create an upstream mend midair, and put the tiny fly close to the bank with a big loop behind it. “Okay, so what if I leave April and she isn't happy? What if I break her heart and mess her up?”

“Helene said it's worth the risk because April doesn't know herself. The boosters agreed.”

“Buncha fuckin' pigs.”

“Possibly.”

Wylie saw the gliding, unhurried rise and felt the sharp tug, then nothing. He raised his rod tip smartly and the fly line whizzed downstream in a wake of spray. The fish was heavy and it found the fast water. Wylie knew he would either keep up with it or lose it. He splashed ashore and followed the narrow foot trail downstream, giving up line as he had to.

The foot trail was muddy and his boots slipped on the contours. It was like being on a ship pitching in an ocean. The fish exploded in a spray of red and silver, a kype-jawed rainbow, and Wylie heard the hard splat when it hit the river. Now it had most of his line, and Wylie felt no surrender, only an extra burst of strength as the fish tore into his backing and the reel screamed. He came to a chasm in the bank and leaped into it, climbing and slipping up the steep far side. The fish jumped again, and it looked so far away and alien, as if projected onto a plane that wasn't quite real, like an old Hollywood backdrop.

The next break in the bank was a shallow mud wallow, so he cut inland around it, busting through the brush, only to see that the trail would soon end at a gravel bar and a pool too deep to wade across. Once upon the bar, he dropped his phone to the rocks, lifted the rod skyward, and threw himself into the pool. He was instantly heavy and cold. Using one arm, he pulled himself forward, barely staying afloat in the deep, still water. It rushed over the top of his waders, trying to sink him. His boots were eerily heavy. The cold made it hard to breathe. Through the rod he could still feel the faraway fish muscling along with the current.

He tried to do the same, scooping himself with one hand toward the river proper. The current finally took him and he buoyed upright, running without his feet touching, as in a dream. Then he found bottom, a blessed rocky slope up which he clambered, pulling himself onto a shallow riffle, where he got his feet under him and renewed his trudge downstream. His heart was pounding, but he was breathing steadily and deeply and this was his mission. He retrieved the backing and a few turns of line.

Which was when the line jumped back at him, then went slack, the distant weight of his fish vanished. Wylie dropped to his knees, bellowing in agony, his voice puny in the world.

Adam caught up with him a minute later. He waded out onto the gravel and stood not far from the still-kneeling Wylie, whose teeth were already chattering. “Good effort,” said Adam. “You did everything right that I could see.”

“I'm not going to go until she asks me to.”

“I didn't think you would.”

“The only thing on Earth I'd trade April Holly for is that fish.”

“Of course.”

“Shit. Man. Christ.”

“Well said. I picked up your phone.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Later that same day, Wylie looked through the Let It Bean window and saw Jacobie Bradford III traipsing across the lot in full fly-fishing regalia—waders snugged with a wide padded belt, gaitered boots, a rain jacket over a fleece, a thousand-pocketed fishing vest with gear dangling. He wore a light blue buff around his throat and a cap over his bald head. He stopped and patted the MPP possessively, like fingernails on a chalkboard to Wylie. Bradford then looked toward Let It Bean and marched forward.

“Look what's coming,” said Beatrice.

“One-hundred-proof evil,” said Belle. “Can't an avalanche just take him?”

Jacobie swung open the door and walked in, his cleated boots clicking loudly on the faux-wooden floor. It was three o'clock and Let It Bean was nearly empty. “Wylie, I'd like to have a word with you in private.” He looked at a few of the customers to make sure they'd heard him. Belle turned her back on him and Bea marched away into the kitchen. Jacobie watched them, eyes on their butts in frank appraisal. “But first, whip me up a nonfat latte. Small. I should know what the competition is up to.”

Wylie battled his desire to fling the man from his establishment. He remembered the Trout Derby pool, wished it was handy. “How'd you do today, Jacobie?”

“Stuck a sixteen-inch brown up in the Long Years section. Last fish of the day. And a bunch of little ones. You?”

“I farmed a big rainbow down on Hot Creek.”

“Nothing worse than farming troutzilla.”

“Some things are quite a bit worse.”

“That sixteen-incher was my two hundred and forty-eighth trout in exactly ninety-two days of fly-fishing. Half days, mostly. So I'm averaging two point six-nine fish per day. Not bad for a beginner.”

“That's a hundred dollars a fish, with the guide fees you're paying.”

“A hundred dollars per fish. Guide fees. Gossip sure flies on this little mountain.”

“It's not every day that someone exciting as you comes to town.”

“True. And I'm happy to support the local economy. Because without my guide, I'd be out there flailing and untangling gruesome knots all day. But instead, I'm catching fish. I'm a real angler. Like you, Wylie.”

Wylie finished making the coffee drink and one for himself, grabbed some napkins, then led the way outside. They stopped near the MPP, and Wylie used the napkins to wipe where Jacobie had touched. The storm was closing in and he could see the early darkness towering immensely in the north and west. The breeze was slight but cold. The streets were busier now than earlier, skiers and boarders coming into town for the first big snow. A commercial passenger jet eased down toward Mammoth/Yosemite airport. He could see his sisters' faces at the Let It Bean window, smudgelike.

“They're cute,” said Jacobie.

“Fifteen and seventeen. Illegal.”

“I wasn't even going there. Why would you think I was?”

“The way you look at them.”

Jacobie shrugged. “It's the way I look at everything.”

Wylie sipped the drink.

“You make a good product, Wylie.”

“Thank you.”

“Too bad Let It Bean can't compete.”

“No. We can't.”

“Which is why I have some very good news for you.”

“I'm ready for that.”

“Gargantua wants to buy you.”

“Mom and Steen would never sell to you.”

“I told my superiors that maybe you could sway them.”

“What's your offer?”

“One quarter of a million dollars cash buyout, and we'll take on fifty thousand in debt. That's enough for your family to make a clean start, maybe buy a Winchell's franchise. Of course, good carpet cleaners are always in demand in alpine climes. I only half jest.”

Jacobie walked halfway around his black Range Rover, defensively considering Wylie from across the spacious black hood. “There's a personal component to the offer. Just between us. Because I like you in spite of our differences. If you take our deal, Grant Bulla won't ever know what I saw when I got to twelve Madrone that day. Which, just to refresh your memory, was you attempting to leave a garage full of stolen property and Belle hightailing it away in the snow. I think Grant could run far with that little tip. He told me he's lifted quite a few latents off that stuff. He'd certainly take yours and Belle's fingerprints for comparison. See, with prints, people think they wipe them all off, but they never do. I learned that on the cop TV shows I watch too many of.”

“You are a pestilence, Jacobie.”

“I try.” He climbed into the SUV and the dark passenger-side window went down half a foot. “Just FYI, Wylie, Gargantua is known for its aggressive acquisition stance. The quarter mil is nonnegotiable, just to save us all some time. So give the offer serious thought. Talk to your tribe, pass around the talking stick, pick some fleas off one another's backs. You've got forty-eight hours. Oh hell—I caught fish today, so make it seventy-two.”

*   *   *

The Welborn-Mikkelsen clan closed Let It Bean at the usual time, then convened, at Wylie's suggestion. Steen got the fire going strong and they pulled five leather chairs into a semicircle in front of the fireplace. Wylie told them of Jacobie's/Gargantua's offer, minus the stuff about twelve Madrone.

Silence.

Glancing through the windows, Wylie saw headlights far down Highway 203, and the steady stream of tourist vehicles pouring onto Old Mammoth Road. The snow had started, light and dainty, swirling capriciously in the down beams of the streetlights. To him, the snowfall from the first good storm had always been a fine thing, not quite sacred, maybe, but certainly to be beheld and thanked for. He looked at the flame-lit faces of his family and knew they all felt the same way. Or at least they used to. But he'd also known—almost since first walking back into his boyhood home ten months ago—that things were changing. And they knew it, too. There was always a point at which you had to move on.